


One Strike Away

by yknowfromtv



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Calm down y'all, Everybody want to be Will's murder buddy, Gen, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hannigram - Freeform, Job Swaps, M/M, Murder, Murder Husbands, Pathologists, Plot, it's going to get weird
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 11:55:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29998995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yknowfromtv/pseuds/yknowfromtv
Summary: A line of murders, ranging from children to adults, begins cropping up as Dr. Hannibal Lecter decides to assist forensic pathologist Will Graham. It gradually becomes clear that these murders are meant for someone in particular, and while Will has enough on his plate with a certain nosy psychologist, it appears he's garnered the attention of two killers. Playing their twisted game, he tries to catch the killer, all while walking a fine line between which side he's on - a line that's becoming blurrier and blurrier.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Kudos: 6





	One Strike Away

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this half idea maybe three, four years ago? Thought the beginning still sounded cool so here we are, trying to make something of it lol. Also, don't know why Will is a pathologist now, but hey, like I said, it's been a bit since I had the idea, I'm sure it was some rad stuff but I just cannot for the life of me recall anything past yesterday. I also don't know anything about anything, haven't watched Hannibal in a hot minute, and there's bound to be inconsistencies or mistakes, I'm sorry, DON'T SUE ME.

“He was brought in around six this morning, left shoe missing upon discovery.”

“Signs of external trauma are present around the left hip, face, and clavicle. Perhaps a heavy, elongated object. A metal bat? Crowbar?”

“Soft material found under fingernails, which were bleeding. Appeared to be clawing at something for a good while. Wrists and ankles bound with rope, chaffed and also bleeding. Evidence of a struggle.”

Voices ooze fluidly in and out of each other, a muddled waltz pooling languidly about Will’s mind. Nothing important or game-changing is said as they merely state the obvious in almost insultingly plaintive vocabulary. So much so that he doesn’t respond, doesn’t say, “I know, I’ve been here since four.” Doesn’t say, “I watched as they brought the body in,” or “I’ve been staring at it the past two hours.”

He doesn't, because that would be concerning, unsettling, and God forbid _abnormal_.

He says nothing, and Beverly, who stands beside him and probably asks him something, continues to pull on her equipment. She wanders over to discuss with Zeller and Price, probably figuring she’d get nothing out of good ol’ charismatic Will Graham. Just as well.

The tang of disinfectant and lingering layer of old death mixes unpleasantly - death is not meant to be clean, pure, adulterated. But he is used to this stench. Comes to expect it, in a way. If it was ever gone . . . Then there would be something to worry about.

“. . . ill. Will?”

Beverly’s voice scrabbles briefly on the sides of the well, but can find no footholds. It falls back into the pit and dissolves into the muddy water, insignificant and indecipherable. A low thrum.

A low thrum.

A dull buzz.

Silence.

There are no fluorescent lights, bleached lab coats, stone cold slabs with stone cold corpses. No voices, no stench, no outsiders. It is dark. It is cold. It is -

Dark. Cold. Soft.

Soft? That adjective doesn’t fit. Too nice.

He shifts, feeling the surface he lays on with tentative fingers. A mattress. Worn through, thin, but soft. 

He moves his arms to sit up, but he can’t. He tugs. Harder. _Harder_. Until his wrists are chaffed and he can feel something warm trail thinly down his forearms. He wants to yell, to scream. But he doesn’t.

_Why?_

A more pressing question intrudes clumsily and repeatedly rams itself into the side of his train of thought: _Where? Where? Where?Where?_

Over and over and over, a mirror maze around each corner, each turn seeming to add another dozen twisted reflections. But this isn’t just a mirror maze; it’s a fun house. These mirrors tell distorted lies. Illusions.

And Will only sees himself reflected back.

* * *

Hannibal Lecter is collateral. 

Self-destructive? No. Collateral in all that is the making of self-destruction? Yes. While he is not the match, he is the cultivator. It is he who strikes and stabilizes the flame, thus owning all rights to protect and snuff his creation, should he please.

He is yet to protect any given flame. Most, he has found, are dirty, black-smoke flames, not worth the time he takes to start them, not worth the oxygen they so greedily consume.

But he’s heard talk of a different type of match. Loose lips, eager ears, all reveling in hushed, baseless secrets. They say this one is off, defective, just one dead body strike away from igniting something darker. A pathologist who seems to be more interested in the predators than the victims he claims to want to help.

It is precisely this idle hope of alleviating a mild boredom that makes Hannibal ask around, slither his way into certain circles, and get a fellow psychologist to put in a good word for him. Now he sits before Jack Crawford, head of the Behavioral Science Unit of the FBI, a skeptical irritant and potential issue.

All in due time, though.

“We don’t get too many doctors asking to be assistant pathologists, Dr. Lecter.” Jack eyes him briefly before he glances back down at the paperwork on his desk. “Especially psychologists. So forgive me if I seem surprised.” 

A slight nod of his head, a modest half-smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. Hannibal idly notes the moment the amusement in Jack’s eyes gives way to suspicion.

He returns the slight smile. “No need to apologize; I understand it’s a bit unconventional. I was referred by Alana Bloom, if that rings a bell.”

It’s not a question.

Jack doesn’t respond, merely continues to stare at him with that openly guarded expression. He is making no pretense of trust, and he wants Hannibal to know that. Hannibal waits patiently, one ankle crossed over his left knee. Relaxed.

Jack finally speaks, breaking eye contact first to shuffle the papers he holds. A show. “Your papers seem to be in order. Everything, in fact, appears to be in order. Your resume is rather impressive, Dr. Lecter.” 

He looks back up and stares a second more, an internal debate warring beneath the surface of his expression. He sighs and stands. “Of course, there’s more to it than some papers saying what they should say. Nonetheless, if everything checks out, might as well show you around.”

Hannibal stands as well. Crawford makes his way to the door and holds it for him, as any polite stranger would. Hannibal offers a polite nod in response, taking the gesture for what it is - a silent declaration of mistrust cloaked in formality. The veil will remain until there is no other option but to pull it away. 

Fine by him. By the time Crawford realizes the shroud is gone, it will already be laid across him, soaking up what is left.

They make their way around the facility, Crawford providing succinct, general titles for spaces that have plaques with this precise information plastered on their entrances. All formality. Hannibal makes little notes, for future reference, but ultimately pays little mind to Crawford’s display. Right now, he just wants to see this pathologist of theirs.

“So, what made you want to pursue the thrilling, rewarding experience of assistant pathologist, Dr. Lecter?” Crawford suddenly asks, dropping his play as tour guide. “I hear you’re a rather established psychologist, in your own right.”

Hannibal indulges him, nodding sagely as if he’s just announced some profound observation. “I appreciate it, but I am just another psychologist. I just happen to be one with a medical degree who would like to see a little more than his office day in and day out.”

“So you go for the job where you’ll get to see dead bodies day in and day out.” Crawford huffs, shaking his head slightly. “Makes sense.”

Hannibal shrugs, donning a mildly abashed expression as he counteracts with, “Those in morbid lines of work must have morbid curiosities. I am merely guilty of a predisposition. Besides, I will continue my psychology work, albeit with less clients, perhaps.”

And that is that. Crawford seems relieved when their destination looms up out of the endless hallway, much of the cold white lighting oozing out of the large observation window. They step before it, Crawford sliding his hands into his pockets and Hannibal clasping his behind his back, both gazing in on a lone figure with their back to them. Before them lay a white sheet-covered body, but they appeared to not be doing anything. Standing stock still, leaning over slightly, they appeared for all the world like a Greek kouros.

Crawford breaks the quiet after a moment, nodding his head toward the figure. “That there is Will Graham, one of our finest.” He glances sidelong at Hannibal. “And your new partner, it would seem.”

“What is he doing?” Hannibal found himself unwilling to pull his gaze away, waiting to see if this sculpture would come to life.

Crawford sighs, as if the answer is a weight on his shoulders and sharing it only made it heavier. “Will has a particular way of working. He’s good at what he does,” he tacks on, as if needing to defend against his methods. “Amazing, even. If a tad unconventional. Sometimes, he doesn’t even need to lay a hand on the body. Just knows. I’ve seen it firsthand.”

Hannibal glances quietly at Crawford. He looks like a proud father, a slight upturn to one corner of his mouth, his eyes soft and distant. But there’s something else there. Worry. He is proud, but it’s a dangerous claim. Hannibal turns back to the statue in the lab.

“Well,” Hannibal begins, “shall we -”

His proposition is cut short when a metallic clattering breaks through. Crawford beelines for the door.

Will Graham has just collapsed.


End file.
